Measuring Mondrian
by Celeste
Summary: Following events in Nemesis, Picard and Geordi have a final task to complete.


**Measuring Mondrian  
**:celeste:

Disclaimer: The world and characters of Star Trek:TNG were created by Gene Roddenberry. Rights belong to Paramount Pictures. The writer makes no profit from this work of fanfiction.

"Let's finish this."

Picard stood on the threshold of the doorway, not quite close enough to trip the sensor, but close enough to see his reflection in the metallic surface. His jaw was clenched, back ramrod straight, eyes tight with apprehension, and fists clenched around the inventory pad. Beside him, the figure of La Forge stood with a carrier slung over one shoulder. He regarded Picard with worry and sadness plainly written over his face, something that would have been far more difficult to tell before his VISOR had been replaced with artificial eyes. Picard wished he had some device to hide his own expressions with such ease, instead of forcing them from view. His poker face was something he prided himself on, an ability that let him stand toe to toe with the Federation's enemies without blinking an eye. For some reason it was difficult to summon that face when staring at a simple door.

Geordi apparently did not intend to let anxiety and heartache get the best of him. He smiled. "I haven't seen you like this since Counselor Troi's mother last visited the ship."

Picard's lips thinned as the memory washed over him. He wanted to shiver. That dreadful woman—still, at this point he would rather deal with Lwaxana than with the task that now lay, quite literally, before him. This was the one part of his job that he hated, hated with a passion, though he hadn't quite dreaded it this much since Jack Crusher's death. No wonder his Chief Engineer was concerned. Picard forced a wan smile. "Don't remind me," he advised dryly.

Chuckling, Geordi pressed the small consul beside the doorframe. With a soft hiss, the doors parted to reveal the darkened quarters beyond. "After you, Captain."

Picard wasted no further time and crossed the threshold.

Even in the low light, the glow of earth just beyond the window lent enough light to make out a few shapes. Shelves lined with books and knickknacks, a comfortable if plain sofa pressed against the wall, a large terminal shaped like a desk arrayed further beyond Picard's right. He took it all in, respectfully silent, until he heard Geordi step to his side a moment before the doors whisked shut. "Computer," a series of chirps responded from above, "lights."

The peaceful stillness remained even after the lighting gradually grew, though now it was heavier. Now Picard could clearly see what, before, had been indistinct shapes on those shelves. Of course, he was immediately drawn to the ancient mask, the one whose brother was displayed in his own office. Gently, Picard lifted it, studying the sun relief etched upon its brow. "Masaka."

Geordi's voice came from the area of the consul. "I remember that." Picard looked over his shoulder in time to catch Geordi shaking his head fondly. "An entire civilization, cramped into a couple trillion positronic pathways."

Picard smiled. "Indeed." He held the mask carefully in one hand and turned to the small table placed before the couch. He placed his own carrier atop and easily unlatched it with one hand. Gingerly, Picard placed the artifact within the small side compartment and unfolded a piece of packing kept in the top half's pouch to wrap around the mask for extra protection.

Meanwhile, Geordi had opened the second shelf within the consul, taking out a small holographic display. He looked at it for a second before shaking his head sadly and adding it to his own carrier. "It's so strange," he commented, more to himself than to Picard. "This is the second time I've had to do this." His frown deepened. "Part of me hoped it might be easier." He sighed. "It's not, though. Somehow, it's worse, because I know this time—well, there's no getting him back."

Picard understood perfectly. Already he was back at the shelves, taking in the multitude of books and small plants, trying to decide who might desire each physical memory of their friend—the plants for Keiko, the vase to Beverly, and a leather-bound copy of _The Interpretation of Dreams_ to Deanna. Normally a task left to the family, Picard had asked Geordi if he could assist him, knowing that there were no others to come and claim these pieces of Data's life. He and Geordi were Data's family, so far as Picard was concerned. He was certain Data would have agreed. "It never gets easier, unfortunately. What would we be if this ever became a simple matter?"

"Something less than human," Geordi agreed, now removing Data's collection of medals. He studied the high honors, shifting the case so that the light traveled across the glass surface, glittering on the array of medals beneath. "Something less than Data," he added quietly.

Picard had finished cataloging and examining the shelves and had moved on to the Android's paintings. The first he came to must have been done during Data's fascination with abstract art. BEC as the Counselor had once lovingly put it, Before Emotion Chip. It was, perhaps, the most amazing thing in a litany of amazing things about Mr. Data. That a creation of man, incapable of basic emotions, had searched for the beauty in human creativity. He had struggled so hard to attain what Picard had always taken for granted…until he met Data.

_What did you see in this, Data_? Picard wondered. A piece emulating Mondrian's style, boxes within boxes, some colored others left blank. Reds, blues, yellows—all different and yet so similar, harmonious pieces coming together within the whole. "We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep," he recited softly.

"Sir?"

Geordi had wandered to his side, and now stared expectantly at him. Picard straightened, though his thoughts stayed with the painting. "Shakespeare, Mr. La Forge," he explained simply. "It seemed apt." Then again, as well his crew knew by now, Picard believed Shakespeare had words apt for any occasion.

The Engineer nodded solemnly, his own cybernetic eyes drifting towards the painting.

"Did he ever explain why he chose this particular style?" Picard asked.

Geordi's brows furrowed as he searched for some memory. "He was experimenting," Geordi said, his expression softening. "You know how he was, Captain. Half of the time, I don't even think Data realized why he preferred one thing over another." His smile grew. "I'd be willing to bet," Geordi went on, shaking a finger at the canvas while looking bemused, "he enjoyed the geometry of it. This is probably the closest bit of art that is…well, Androidian, sir. All very linear and comfortable to calculate, but still with color—something that seems a bit out of place within all those clean lines. Maybe it just made sense to him."

_A bit out of place within all those clean lines_, _yes_. "You know, lately…I often find myself thinking back to Data's trial," Picard admitted, still contemplating each box filled with color.

"When Maddox tried to claim Data was the property of Starfleet?" Geordi asked.

Picard nodded. "Just so. I am grateful that Data did not have his chip at the time. It was—difficult enough for me. For Will. And it wasn't even our own sentience put to the test." He took a steady breath, frowning. "To have to prove your life's worth. To endure the argument that you are nothing put a collection of nuts and bolts—something to be taken apart with no more consideration than one would give a warp coil or a replicator." He folded his arms across his chest. "To always be seen as something…less than alive."

"We knew differently, Captain," Geordi replied with utter conviction. "Anyone who spent any time around Data knew that wasn't true."

Picard smiled, but it was a smile laden with sorrow. "Oh yes, Mr. La Forge. We knew. Still, Phillipa raised a question that has haunted me since—" he broke off, pressing his lips together and—once again—mastering himself. "Since. She wondered if he had a soul, and I have sought the answer for many nights now. Hoping, daring to hope."

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had just questioned such a thing before Data's closest friend. Picard turned, prepared to see Geordi angry—prepared to offer apologies.

Instead he found those mechanical eyes kindly meeting his own in a face that was utterly serene. "Of course he does, Captain. If you and I qualify, and I'd like to believe we do, then Data certainly—certainly—does. After all, we're nothing but a collection of bones and tissue. Data's building blocks may have been different, but inside," Geordi pressed a hand to his breast, entirely earnest, "right here, where it matters, he was the same as us. Better, maybe. If Data had a heart, then I assure you he had a soul to go with it."

Picard stood still, letting Geordi's conviction wash over him, chasing all those nightmares away. Finally he let out a breath, a weight that had been pressing upon him since Data's loss finally lifted from his own heart. "Yes." He placed a hand on Geordi's shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you."

Geordi returned the gesture. "Anytime." He turned back towards the painting, waving a hand at it. "Why don't you take it, Captain. I'm sure he would have been pleased to know it's in your hands."

Though he was touched by the gesture, Picard shook his head. "You helped him in his artistic endeavors. Surely you—"

But Geordi chuckled, already moving back towards the consul. "I have several, Captain. In fact, Data recently painted a scenic view of Telorian V for my birthday." Sorrow seemed to cloud him for a moment, but he shook it off and continued across the room. "If you'd like it, sir, then you should have it."

Deciding not to argue, Picard took a final look at the work before reaching up and removing the painting from where it had hung since Data had moved aboard the new _Enterprise_.

He set it against the wall, to retrieve when he was ready to leave. Just as he was about to move towards Data's closet, he heard Geordi issue a startled noise. Whirling on his heels and quickly striding across the room, Picard crisply asked, "Something wrong?"

Bent over the bottom drawer, Geordi looked up. Perhaps it was the light and the metallic sheen on Geordi's implants, but Picard swore he saw the Engineer's eyes twinkle. "Nothing wrong," he answered, amusement running thick in his voice. Picard's brow furrowed in confusion, and he was about to demand an explanation when Geordi lifted something out of the drawer.

Clacking onto the desktop was a set of poker chips. Picard slowly drifted closer, until he and Geordi stood side by side, gazing down.

The two men turned to regard each other. Then, simultaneously, they both said with fond exasperation, "Riker."

They smiled, and then they laughed. Data himself could not have thought of a warmer tribute than that.


End file.
